POV: Narūn
I stand before the gates of Vallegrad.
The city looms like a sleeping titan, its walls rising from the earth like jagged mountain chains—immense, ancient, and unshakable.
This is not just a city.
It is a test.
A beginning.
I hail from a small village near the borderlands of the Kingdom of Huganyor—a land cloaked in deep forests, misty hills, and forgotten places.
A realm of secrets and silence, perfect for Goblins and other half-bloods to disappear into.
But I did not come to disappear.
I came to rise.
Together with my younger brother, Kar, I've traveled far to fulfill a dream we've carried since childhood:
To build a mercenary company.
To carve our name into the world, no matter the cost.
To make our people—our bloodline—proud.
We are not here to beg or hide.
We are here to fight, to lead, and to build.
This is the beginning of the Ogodai Dynasty.
And Vallegrad… is where it all begins.
Upon arriving in Vallegrad, I was met with a certain kind of fear—
not the kind that comes from danger,
but the quiet, creeping kind that settles deep in your chest when you're uncertain if you belong.
Vallegrad was vast, powerful—a true metropolis.
And like many such cities, it belonged to humans.
I didn't know if they accepted Hobgoblins, or others like me—
the half-bloods, the misfits, those born far from polished marble halls and noble names.
In their eyes, we were often seen as lesser. Tools, threats, or simply... unwanted.
And yet, I had come anyway.
Because if a place like Vallegrad could be shaped by gold, ambition, and reputation—
then I would give them all drei.
Whether they liked it or not.
As we approached the arched gate of Vallegrad, my fear began to fade.
Two half-goblins stood among the guards. That small detail—barely noticeable to others—meant the world to me.
If they allowed half-goblins to serve here, then there was a good chance Hobgoblins like us would also be accepted.
At least tolerated.
And tolerance was all I needed to get started.
At the gate, the guards halted us and demanded identification.
We exchanged uncertain glances.
"Identification?" I asked.
The way their eyes narrowed told me enough—we clearly weren't locals.
"Where are you from?" one of them pressed.
"We come from the Kingdom of Huganyor," I replied, standing tall, refusing to show weakness.
They didn't believe us. That much was obvious.
But we didn't deny it. We didn't flinch.
Eventually, they gave each other a knowing look, shrugged, and stepped aside.
"Fine," one muttered. "You'll find out what Vallegrad is really like soon enough."
Before they could turn away, I raised my voice again.
"One more thing—where can we find the Mercenary Guild? We're here to earn our names."
That made them pause.
One of the half-goblin guards gave a faint grin. "Third district, north side. Look for the black banner with the crossed blades."
And just like that, we were in.
Step by step, we were getting closer.
Closer to the world.
Closer to power.
Closer to Ogodai.
We walked through the streets of Vallegrad, and we could hardly believe our eyes.
We had heard it was big.
But this?
This was beyond anything we imagined.
People of every race rushed past us—elves in flowing robes, dwarves carrying crates, orcs laughing boisterously with humans, and the occasional tiefling watching the crowds with careful eyes.
Merchants shouted from every corner, advertising spices, fabrics, weapons, and food.
The scent of freshly baked bread drifted through the air—warm, rich, just like the kind our mother used to make back in the village.
And the smell of roasted meat—it pulled me straight back to the firepit behind our old home, where the hunter would bring us the day's catch.
But this wasn't Huganyor.
This was Vallegrad.
And we weren't here to relive memories.
As we passed through the market stalls, weaving between carts and crates, we knew exactly where we were going.
To the Mercenary Guild.
We weren't just here to fight.
We were here to establish ourselves—to become known, respected… feared.
And one day,
to found our own mercenary company.
A company the world would come to know as Ogodai.
Finally, we arrived at the Mercenary Guild.
The building stood tall, solid, and well-guarded—its walls lined with worn banners and steel plaques bearing the names of legendary warriors.
This was it.
The place where our journey would begin.
We stepped through the heavy wooden doors and into the main hall. The scent of iron, leather, and old parchment filled the air. Warriors and adventurers of every kind lingered around tables, checking job boards or laughing over drinks.
We walked slowly but purposefully toward the front desk, where a guild clerk—a stern-looking woman in a dark vest and silver badge—watched us approach.
She raised an eyebrow but remained professional.
"Names? Place of origin?" she asked.
"And class designation?"
I stepped forward.
"My name is Narūn. We come from the Kingdom of Huganyor.
I'm a swordfighter."
My brother followed.
"Kar. Same origin. I'm a hunter—grew up tracking in the forests, running with the hunters back home."
She nodded, tapping something into a brass-framed console.
After a moment, she pulled out two guild ID cards—small, engraved plates with our names, classes, and a symbol of Vallegrad's Mercenary Guild.
"You're now officially registered," she said, handing us the cards.
"These will serve as your identification. Don't lose them."
We took them silently.
This was it.
Our first step—not just into the guild, but into the legend we intended to create.
I walked slowly with my brother toward the training grounds of the Vallegrad Mercenary Guild.
If we wanted to rise—truly rise—we had to get better.
I was determined to sharpen my swordsmanship, to one day master a true combat style, maybe even create one of my own.
Kar, on the other hand, was already stringing his bow, focused on refining his precision, his stance—his instincts.
The guild allowed direct sparring with the instructors—veterans who had seen more battles than I could count.
They didn't go easy on anyone.
And neither did mine.
I stepped into the training ring, blade in hand, and faced the instructor.
He didn't say much—just nodded, then struck.
It wasn't spectacular.
It wasn't even close.
I lost.
Hard.
Again.
And again.
And again.
So many defeats that I stopped counting.
My pride was battered worse than my bruised arms.
But I stood back up every time.
Because every scar was a lesson.
And I knew—true strength wasn't just about winning.
It was about refusing to stay down.
Author: Crowley0221
The character Narūn is played by André Castor.
But from this point on, I'll simply call him Narūn.
I'll only say it once, so take note.
Now—
Enjoy the story.